Grasping the Spider's Thread
by Aservis Roturier
Summary: What transpired in the dark when demon met earl? M for language and violent and suggestive situations.
1. Chapter 1

Grasping the spider's thread

They beat me badly this time. I can feel it: I will not be able to bear many more like that. Mine is not a strong body. They slammed my head into the edge of that marble table—or altar, or whatever it is, a number of times and since then my eyes...I cannot make them work together any longer, cannot get them to see a single image. Nor will my head stop pounding.

I suppose I'll never get a good look at the thing that's been watching us now—Well actually, I think it's just been watching _me_.

Not that I could see it before, but at least with two working eyes I stood a chance of catching a glimpse at some point. I could at the least focus on the spot that rustled and sighed in the silence when all the other sounds ceased, when the other children had finally drifted off to sleep, slipped into unconsciousness or died of their hunger and wounds. There would be just this tiniest of sighs and movement, and sometimes a breath of air against my ear, or on the back of my neck, making the hair there rise up in warning, or sometimes the phantom feel of a touch against my cheek, or fingers up my thigh or down the length of my body when nothing was there... well now I think on it, my eyes weren't so important. I felt and heard it more than anything else.

Sometimes there would even be words.

Words I was sure no one heard but me—which is why I said I thought it was watching me particularly—though I don't know why I should interest it. I'm not the only child of a titled family being held here and there's nothing else special about me. Still, the words seem to echo in my head alone, muttering of the injustice of such torments and the sweet taste of revenge. For a while I ignored it because I thought I must simply be going mad. But after thinking about it, I don't feel particularly deranged. And something about the voice seemed quite real to me...

Anyhow, whatever it is, it retreats into the darkness again when the occultists return. They keep re-appearing, prancing about, slashing themselves, sloshing blood and alcohol everywhere whilst reading aloud from these mouldy old tomes they bring with them, rending and torturing, buggering and murdering children on that altar thing.

Actually, I think perhaps they are trying to raise a devil for themselves.

Actually, I think they already have done.

Perhaps that's what it is that's moving around in the dark when things get quiet. I don't quite know how to express this, but it feels... infernal. It just doesn't seem to like the look of them any better than I do for some reason. I wouldn't know what appeals to a devil, but they certainly don't do much for me. Laughing raucously and behaving lewdly amongst themselves, rutting on their altar and on the floor, mussing up their carefully painted symbols...honestly, they don't seem very serious about it, whatever it is they're trying to do. Perhaps this is why he is rejecting them. Or perhaps I'm wrong and this just how you appeal to a devil.

They are back again now which only means one thing: they're giving devil raising another go and another of our number will die, at least one, and he or she will be the lucky one. We in the cages fall silent, hoping to turn invisible as they come to gloat over us, taking their time, poking, twisting, making their selection.

One of them laughs and says "And who shall it be today, my ducklings?" They were coming close to my cage so without hesitation I reached out and did the most painful thing I could think of to the boy in the cage with me: I reached between his legs and twisted, giving him a kick for good measure. His howl immediately drew the vultures to us.

"What ails this one all of a sudden?"

"Cramp, probably. It's tight in these cages."

"Or terror at our approach. He's been here long enough to know what it signifies." They laugh at that. One reaches a coarse, red hand through the bars and tries to lay hold of his leg while another works the complicated lock. The one with the thick red paws latches onto my cage mate and his cries escalate to blubbering howls for his 'mummy'. The smell of terror and fresh-spilled urine fills the air around me as I cling to the furthest corner of the tiny space, my arms locked onto the bars, trying to be invisible. I take care to turn my face away: I have learnt to my cost they fancy my eyes.

"Come forth little one, the devil will surely be pleased with your pretty form and yellow hair," a fat one at the back croons, clearly wanting those things for himself, devil be damned.

"What of the other one with the beautiful eyes?" says a new voice, a familiar one. I look back to see an exceedingly tall man dressed like a gentleman, all in black, a leather mask on his face that resembles curling black flames, or maybe curving feathers. I cannot see his eyes properly-there is something odd there but my blurred vision defeats me.

"Perhaps," the tall one drawls in a voice like treacle that suddenly recalls to me the one that whispers in my head when all is dark and quiet: "perhaps his little cage mate with the pretty eyes gave him a kick to turn attention away from himself?"

Bastard.

"Have him out as well then. We should teach him not to touch what does not belong to him." Another great meaty hand closes over the chain attached to my leg and I am jerked across the cage as well. I vow I will not give them the satisfaction of seeing my tears or hearing me cry.

Nor do I.

And all the while the tall one holds himself aloof, simply watching the proceedings. Smug bastard.

And that is what led to this latest beating. But as bad as it was it was, it was nothing to what was done to the other boy. His body violated, prodded, invaded in scores of ways, he bleeds and seeps and dribbles now in an unappealing heap of unconscious flesh on the other end of our shared cage. In the end they called him a failure and tossed him back in: the devil did not come for him, either. The masked gaggle filtered out of the room, disappointed once again.

"Who knew a devil could be so choosy, eh?" the tall one chuckles in a sweetly inflected whisper, melting back into the shadows as the others leave. So it _was_ him, _the thing who watches._

They beat me hard, thanks to his smart mouth, and it has made me short of breath and short of temper.

"Show yourself or fuck off, bastard wight!" I ordered into the silence. The two children in the next cage and the one who shares mine jerk at my loud voice, groaning and instinctively throwing their hands up to protect themselves—raised voices and raised fists go together in this new world of ours.

I heard another chuckle, dark and somehow seductive— I know little of such things but that is how I would describe it: seductive. Because it made me want to hear more of it, in spite of everything.

Yes, I know I'm young, but I knnow about carnal acts now. I've seen that rude, laughably awkward struggle to relieve the itch numerous times now. Crude, unadorned fucking, frottage and forced fornication, yes, yes, far more than I ever wanted to know, thanks to these masked monsters who hold us captive. They've taught both by example and hands-on. But this voice...this voice is something else again. Its words beguile, slip one over the other the way melting chocolate slips over the tongue, at once bitter and sweet, decadent and...desirable. The tone of it causes heat to gather in my gut in a way I don't really understand but it makes me think of those other acts, though I don't see the connexion. In spite of the beating it cost me, I want to hear more of that voice.

"I said show yourself!"

"Oh? And what will you give me if I do as you demand, little lordling?" it whispers, the wind of the words somehow stirs the hair lying against my neck sending a chill down my body. My anger makes me brave...or reckless.

"Well, what is your pleasure, devil? My resources are rather limited at the moment. I have piss-soaked trousers, a pot full of shit in the corner here—oh! and a few bloody, dripping wounds, thanks to your interference a while ago. Or perhaps you'd like to have my cage mate over there. You're welcome to him, though he hasn't long to live, I think. I suppose it depends on what you want with him whether he's of any use to you. Mind you, he's not really mine to give, but somehow, after crouching in this cage in the dark for Christ knows how long, I find myself pretty cavalier about rights and propriety. I suspect they mean very little to you, as well."

"Mmm. Quite so." The voice approves and I can hear both laughter and surprise in equal measure. An eerie silence descends. After a few moments I suddenly hear my cage mate's muffled voice moaning weak objections to something. He is suddenly struggling as though he can't breathe, or struggling _with_ something. He thrashes and kicks—kicks _me _because of course these iron gaols were never made for comfort. They are neither wide nor high enough for me to escape his thrashing legs. In the end I guess he has his revenge for what I did to him earlier. Soon enough his kicking tails off into a long, shuddering spasm that straightens his limbs and holds them there, quivering. Then there is an odd, drawn out, rattling breath that turns my stomach, and after that he goes lax. I listen carefully for him to breathe in again but it doesn't happen.

The thing has taken him. At my word, the thing that watches has taken him! I must not lower my guard—not that I could fight off a thing of shadows, or whatever it is. My condition is so laughably pathetic I could not fight off a forward maggot. I should double my guard –

...but wouldn't death be a way to escape this hell?

What comes next makes my stomach heave. It is a sensation of wet heat, of what can only be a hot mouth on my arm where my captives caned and battered me to the point of blood and breaking bones. Pain blossoms anew and my stomach lurches and strains to eject its contents—only of course there are no contents, so there is only that sickening sensation of dry heaves and burning of acid climbing my throat which I struggle to stop.

"Get off me! Nng OFF me!" I cry, striking out with my good arm only to realise my invisible molester has progressed to lapping up the spilled blood from the rusty, filthy cage bottom. The thing has taken me at my word again, taken what I flippantly offered. I cringe away, realising it is beside me, _right inside the cage with me._

"How did you get in here?!" I demand.

Laughter.

"Physical barriers do not hinder me. I go where I please. Even _through_ you if I care to." I can see a tall form now, nothing more than a darker shadow in the ubiquitous darkness. A silhouette, but with eyes like a cat's in the dark: redly catching and reflecting the small amount of light cast by the distant torch burning fitfully in a bracket near the exit. The silhouette is slowly straightening up over me, standing erect as though the iron bars that trap me do not exist for it—for him: it is definitely a man's voice I am hearing, as well as a male form I am seeing. Its steps scrape and ring like iron-striking-iron on the cage bottom. I look up with envy despite my fear.

"I wish I had your talent, devil. I cannot recall when last I got to stand and stretch. I doubt my legs would hold me." Hopelessness lends me daring; I am speaking to some shade of hell as though it were my equal.

It is impossibly tall and thin,sleek and black. "I thank you for the refreshment, little lordling, you are a most generous host."

"There's still the shit pot over there if you're peckish."

"I thank you, but I must decline for now."

"You have nice manners for a devil."

"The devil is a fine gentleman. Have you not heard?"

"I've heard of the milk of human kindness too. Didn't make it real, did it." More soft dark laughter echoes and bounces eerily off the walls and arches overhead. I marvel that no one else seems to hear it, or hear me speaking to it for that matter.

"What a tart little tongue. You are a most amusing little morsel. I must definitely save you for last."

"Oh? Well, lucky me..." This makes the fiend laugh fit to burst.

"You should examine your little companion over there. He has many things you could make use of, and no further use for them himself: a stout pair of socks, for instance, a heavier jacket than your own and also a bit of blanket. If nothing else you could sleep on them. This stone floor must surely suck the heat from that fragile little body of yours when you lie on it. But don't wait too long. He will stiffen up soon enough and then you'll never get them off him."

"How thoughtful of you." I sneer, but do exactly as he suggests—dead bodies have long since lost their terror for me.

I lay down on the things I have scavenged. They still smell of the other boy and I don't like the reminder. In a few days, if I'm still alive, perhaps then I'll think about putting them on. Pain is all I can think about now. I ache terribly from the beating I was given and the pain is quickly growing. So to take my mind from my throbbing, swelling arm I try to draw out the fiend a little longer in conversation.

"These cultists, will you give them what they seek?"

More sputtering laughter. "Whatever for? They have nothing I want."

"And yet you're here."

No answer, only the ringing footfalls fading away.

"Are deals all you're interested in?"

A subdued chuckle. "Why, little one, did _you_ have something in mind?"

"No," I sigh, squirming to find a comfortable way of laying down. "Not really. Only passing the time, trying to take my mind off the hurt and hunger."

"There's always the shit pot," he suggests, offering me what I offered him, and I can hear the laughter in his voice and can't help a little snort of my own. He has a clever tongue, I'll give him that.

"Not really to my taste either, though who knows ... if I'm down here long enough it might start to look better to me." More laughter. It seems to recede and echo and then the place feels empty again. I look about me as I am able. The reflective eyes and tall form are no longer anywhere to be seen.


	2. Chapter 2

Lacking the distraction of the voice, the pain now engulfs me. I begin to feel warmer than I should and wonder if a fever has taken me. I lay my head on my good arm and allow my consciousness to drift.

Dreams come, but they have no form or light, only darkness and a muttering voice that occasionally erupts in deep, elegant laughter. Hands seem to touch me everywhere. Not blows this time, but gentle, probing, exploratory touches. Every inch of my body is manipulated, petted, mouthed. I feel my body curling in on itself, not liking the insistent fingers going where even my own have not, but at least they are not causing me further pain. Again I feel the mouth on my wounded arm but instead of making things worse, the pain actually seems to lessen and the feverish feeling to subside. Warm arms encircle and cradle me as though I were an infant. My head is gently pressed to a firm breast and shoulder that radiates heat and shudders with the regular thudding of a strong heart. Its rather nice, really, I decide, snuggling into the imaginary warmth. I should remember this fantasy. It will be a great comfort to me when I am trying to find sleep on the cold stone floor. A hand with long fingers combs gently through my hair, working through the tangles, brushing it out of my eyes, tucking it neatly behind an ear. The nails are rather long and jagged and they snag at my skin and hair sometimes which gives me chills, but compared to most of the nightmares I've had since being brought to this hell hole—they were all filled with roaring flame, shrieks, the stench of burning hair and other unbearable memories—this is all quite soothing and appreciated. I find myself comforted in spite of my strong sense that this is wrong, wrong, wrong ... I know there are no arms for me any longer. I watched them die with my own eyes. No one will be rescuing me. There is no one left to really miss me now. No one left in the world of the living who will care enough to hold me like this, soothe me, or worry whether I am frightened or hurt.

I decide it hardly matters whether or not this is wrong or if it is imaginary comfort I give to myself. I should gratefully accept whatever comfort I can find and be glad of it, whatever the source, however illusory. So I don't struggle. In fact, I reach up in my dream and thread my arms about the place where shoulders and a neck should be, and I am surprised to find strong, broad shoulders and hot skin beneath my fingers. I hear a breath sharply drawn: someone else sounds surprised as well. It is all very pleasant and comforting. I burrow into the exotic-smelling warmth, wishing with all the strength I have left in me that it were true and this were real. I may have even said it out loud...I do talk in my sleep sometimes. I am so tired of sleeping on stone, breathing air fouled with the heavy stench of excrement, soured bodies and putrifying flesh. My hands creep around the torso that holds me in my dream. Such a delicious sensation: the comfort of another living body against my own.

It doesn't last of course. All too soon it all fades away to blankness and chill and filthy, slimy, cold, hard stone.

I am jerked out of my suffocating sleep by the shaking of the cage and the sharp sounds of heavy iron-shod boots scraping and scuffing against the floor. A pair of guards are trying to get my cage mate out of our shared cage to dispose of the body. But he's stiffened now, locked in a curled position far too wide to fit through the door. They are having a hell of a time getting him unbent enough to pass through. It hurts me to watch them cursing and kicking at the frail little body— though I don't know why. He is long past feeling it.

When that horror show is finally over—they had to break his bones in the end- I am handed a wooden bowl of thin gruel that looks to be oats and barley mixed with some bones, a piece of cheese rind and a floating blob of fat. It smells off—they surely pawed through some rubbish tip to find these ingredients and the smell is dreadful. There is also a small, rock-hard crust of dark, coarse bread to go with it. I can't decide which is worse: the hunger twisting my gut or the nausea I feel at the rancid smell coming off of it.

_You should eat it even so, little one. Your body needs the nourishment._ The now familiar voice whispers in my head again. _So this is madness_, I think: _disembodied voices giving one suspect health advice._

Laughter again._You are not mad, little one. At least not just yet, you're not,_ it whispers._ I shall prove it to you, shall I? Pay attention then: the boy in the grey weskit, in the cage behind you to your left: he was given a scrap of meat in his bowl. If you are quick and bold, perhaps you will be able to take it from him_. Without thinking, I reach back and slap down at the hands and bowl of boy in the cage behind me. I succeed in tipping the contents of his bowl out onto the stone floor and sure enough, there is a string of gristly meat and a rather large piece of turnip or possibly potato. I snatch both and quickly shove them in my mouth and swallow, choking over the long string of meat and connective tissue but determined to get them down now, while scooting away to the front of my cage to avoid the furious, desperate arms clutching at me. They will all avoid me now, knowing how far I am willing to go to survive a little longer.

I quietly finish the bread I was given, soaking and softening it in the gruel, while turning things over in my head: that thought had to have come from outside myself. There was no way I could've known what the boy behind me had in his bowl. I look up at the dark corners of the room again and see those reflective eyes once again looking back. Ruddy eye shine and perhaps the shadow of a grin: a sickle-shaped shadow slightly lighter than the shadows around it.

Something infernal has taken notice of me. Should I be gripped with dread or absurdly encouraged? I only know it is rude not to acknowledge help when it's been extended to you and I was certainly just the recipient of some genuine help.I direct a nod of thanks in the direction of the eyes. Immediately I hear a suppressed chuckle and by the way the eyes move and briefly wink out in the blackness I believe my nod of acknowledgement has been returned.

I have stolen food from a starving child, at the instigation of a devilish shade. What am I becoming?


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: I believe I am back on track now with this chapter. At least I hope so. If anyone sees any continuity errors, unclear bits or anything else problematic, tell me so I can sort it out. Thanks for your patience.-AR

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Later, when all is still and I am certain all the other children are sleeping, I begin to hear metallic-sounding steps tok, tok, tok, tok echoing around the chamber, coming down along the line of the cages. Someone—or some_thing_ is walking along, dragging something hard along the cage bars so it makes a sound something like a clacking machine running taktaktaktaktaktaktaktak along the bars. The demon—if that's what it is, has returned, dragging its claws along the cage bars.

"Thinking a little more clearly now you've got something in your tum, hmm?" he asks.

"Are you taking credit for that now, demon?"

"Well, I did nudge them along. On their own they might've forgotten again. It might have taken them days to get around to it."

"Why bother." I look away. "all you've done is prolong this hell for me."

"Oh little one, this is no Hell. Not even close, I assure you."

All I could manage was a miserable grunt in reply.

"Well there's gratitude for you," the creature muttered then stared at me for a few moments, tapping its claws on the stone. "You're not feeling well are you. You've gone quite sour on me."

"Oh. Do you really think so?" I had more angry words I wanted to say but the horrible slop I'd eaten earlier was beginning to turn on me and I let go a humiliating belch of rancid, sulphury gas suddenly flew out of my mouth without warning.

"Phew!" the devil cried, waving his hand in front of his face. "Smells like home. Sweet succubus, no wonder you're sour; they've poisoned you with that slop."

I feel he must be right. My insides are suddenly in complete rebellion. And through it all, my mind is gripped by an unreasoning fury. _He_ is the who urged me to eat; this is all _his_ _fault! _The idea of a demon going about randomly 'doing good' offended my idea of the natural order of things. I also suspected he knew what it would do to me and that he was just playing with me to see what would happen_. _The whole situation made me feel helpless _and that made me furious. "_Why _did_ you have to interfere!? What is a devil doing performing good deeds for in the first place? Ludicrous creature..." more eructions and more pain. I feel as though I might heave up everything I'd eaten any minute.

The creature frowned. "Just returning the favour."

I stared for a while pondering what that could mean. "Oh. You mean—" and I pointed to my arm, remembering the feel of that hot mouth sucking at the wound in what I had assumed was merely a fevered dream. The faceless head inclined a bit. I could almost hear its lips sliding back greasily in a feral grin. I felt along my arm wondering at the fact it wasn't hurting anything like it had been. Yesterday I'd been certain it was broken. In fact yesterday I'd been certain it was putrifying. That was when I realised today it actually wasn't hurting at all.

"You—you sort of...healed it, didn't you?"

A pantomime shrug "A bit."

"Reason?"I demanded angrily. The angrier I got the more amused the filthy creature seemed to get. Infuriating demon. If I could reach him I'd soon slap that filthy leer off his face.

Another shrug with added hand action up around its ears. "Felt like it?"

"Well...fair enough, I suppose..." I was rather taken aback at his answers. It wasn't what I had expected at all.

"I'll have you know I'm always fair."

"Hmph. Except when you're not, I'll wager."

"Well said. You know me so well already, I feel we've been friends forever!"

"No stranger to hyperbole and sarcasm either, I see."

"Mmmnnope!" he cried, his voice quite merry and followed by a soft, almost child-like giggle.

Feeling far from my best, I was growing tired of the thing's games rather quickly.

"Why are you here?" I said, unable to keep the dejection and numbness out of my voice. Lying down helped my gut settle a bit.

"Well, someone summoned me, of course."

"Yes yes, but why are you _still_ here?" I persisted.

"Well that's easy enough: I haven't heard any offers I liked so far.

"Offers. What do they offer you? What do they want? What is it _you_ want?"

"Ah! Well, since you ask, what_ I_ want is _souls. _I eat them, you see. It's what sustains me, somewhat like your soup and bread. Yech, I hate to admit it but most of them really do equate rather precisely to that filth they flung at you earlier. "

_Souls?!_ The answer horrified me and struck the words from my mouth.

"Not all of them though. Some are quite sweet and delightful on the tongue. You, uh, happen to have one lying about you're not doing anything important with by chance?"

_Souls? The thing **eats** souls? My god! I must stop talking to this thing immediately._

"Hmm?" it paused, considering me. Considering my reaction to his words and playing at looking shocked and disappointed. "Oh, I've gone and put you off, haven't I and just when we were getting on so well. I should learn to keep my big gob shut."

_The thing eats **souls**..._

"Always the same: tell people you live on souls and like that nobody wants to know you."

A tense silence settled.

"Well then, little one," the demon said and turned away. I felt rather than saw a great disturbance in the dark all around and behind him and heard the unmistakeable sound of massive feathered wings being put right with a brisk shiver and a shake. The sound of a roosting bird collecting itself and getting ready for flight.

"I can see I am no longer wanted. Give me a shout should you change your mind, if you happen to think of anything _you_ want... um, out of here, for instance, or vengeance."

_The thing **eats souls.**_

_**.**_

...

.

All was quiet now. My stomach had quit hurting finally after purging everything from my insides with violent sicking up and other equally violent evacuations the other direction. After so much frantic straining and insides heaving, I lay trembling and exhausted, but at least I was a lot warmer than before with the addition of the blanket and clothes from my former cage mate.

Evening was creeping in over us again with its evil, penetrating damp. The invasive cold was the only way we here in the dark could tell when day had died and night had come. I guessed we must be both below ground and near the river, the way the air felt, perhaps somewhere in that lawless patch called Docklands my father always worried over when reading his daily broadsheet. At least there were no windows where we were to let in any light.

We were entombed here in only knew night had come when suddenly no amount of huddling or bundling or even the sharing of rags and body heat could chase out the penetrating cold.

Such relentless torment was undreamed of when I lived within the well-lit walls of my parents' snug and protected manor house. Compared to this daily anguish even our house servants who slept in the loft and underground by the kitchen lived like kings and queens. For us, as well as so many of London's destitute, each night was spent tensed against the rising chill rolling in off the Thames, which must've been near at hand to affect us so, and every morning spent shaking off the terrible stiffness like old people, longing for that meagre cup of hot water they gave each of us every morning to help us recover.

The only real difference 'twixt night and day, I realised, was the nature and quality of the misery we were forced to experience. I knew if I could somehow manage to live through this and regain my freedom once again, I would never again be able to walk blindly past the nameless, faceless wretches huddled together in alleys and doorways all across night time London as I once did in my father's arms without understanding the pain and misery they endured.

There was to be no gathering tonight, apparently. The only real disturbance had come when the one who had handed out the bowls of rancid gruel came back in later and had his way with a fragile looking little tow-headed girl who was caged alone far off to my right. And when the pleading and weeping noises of that assault were finally over and he'd tossed her back into her cage limp and rumpled, the silence settled down thick, heavy and seemingly immovable. Beyond that, and a cry from behind me when the boy whose bowl I'd tipped out discovered his cage mate had just died in his sleep, it was shaping up to be another still, if shiversome, evening.

I had gathered the piece of blanket from the dead boy and balled it into a pillow, draped his jacket over my front and sat on my own jacket folded in fours for insulation against the stone floor so I could lean back against the bars of the cage and view the room I was in without it causing me too much pain or discomfort. And so I sat, surveying my dark surroundings. I did not wish to admit it, but I was seeking that pair of reflective eyes, wondering if I would see them again and if so, what it would lead to. Looking into the dark for those gleaming eyes had very quickly become a habit for me—well. By this point, perhaps obsession would be a better word.

Then again, there was little else to occupy my mind and I did not like to admit it, but I missed having another person with me in the cage. It was a distraction at least, even if I did feel invaded having another person, a complete stranger thrust in upon me and unable to withdraw.

I quickly found myself missing the voice that had spoken to me out of the dark. Apparently a devil for company was still better than no company at all.

Enough time had gone by I'd got over my shock at the thing's confession of what it sustained itself on, what it wanted. I was glad now I hadn't suggested it release me or anything else.

I eventually found it—found _him_ again when my eyes quit trying to pierce the darkness and settled on the stone table in the centre of the circle. Apparently it had been watching me search for it the entire time. There was no eyeshine this time—the torchlight was situated behind it—throwing the creature into dense shadow: a pure, black, featureless silhouette. He was stretched out on top of the marble table in a casual pose, head propped in one hand, ridiculously long, slender legs crossed demurely at the ankle and dangling off the table's end. He surely must be a devil to affect such an insolent pose when damn nearly naked.

"Well what else should I be _but_ a devil? Tsk, and to think I took you for clever..." the voice said dryly.

So: my thoughts are an open book to it. So much for plotting to gain some leverage.

"What an interesting habit of mind you possess, little one. Always working the angles and seeking advantages. And you never really stop, do you?" He made a snorting sound I took to mean he was amused. "You would make a rare chess player, I think." It shifted a bit then grinned at me and this time I could see the lower face quite clearly: a thin lipped, very human-looking mouth full of utterly inhuman teeth.

"I already am a rare chess player," I tell him. There goes my resolve to not speak to it. Scuttled by pride, a deadly sin, as I recalled.

"Are you _indeed? _I knew it! Well splendid, it's settled then: you must give me a game one day soon."

"It isn't very likely now is it, given my circumstances."

"Ah, yes. About that: I ..."

The pause became over-long.

"Demon," I murmured, wondering if he'd nodded off or something.

"Hm?"

"Did you drift off, laying there?"

" Hmm ... what? Oh. No no no, I don't 'drift off'. I was merely...you know, thinking."

"Thinking..."

"Certainly. Thinking about how easily circumstances may change, you see, just like that!" He snapped his fingers and a spark with a bright blue tongue of flame shot up from his snapping fingertips like a steel striking flint, then winked out just as quickly, leaving behind an after-trail of smoke which slowly snaked its way to the ceiling like a soft, grey ribbon of silk. I watched it twisting and curling its way up into oblivion.

I glanced about me. No one else had so much as looked up. No one but I had heard or seen a thing.

_Lucky, lucky smoke,_ I thought, _to escape this place so easily._

"Just like that, in the mere blink of an eye and one's circumstances can change utterly. And also I was thinking," he paused and I could feel his eyes on me, "...about how very young you are."

"Young? Well, what of it? The young die just as easily as the old. Easier, in some cases. This room is full of the proof of that. What has that to do with you and what you want, with me, with anything?"

"My thoughts were far from death for once, my lordly little chess player. Rather, I was think—"

The doors banged open again: the cultists had returned.


	4. Chapter 4

With the updating of chapter III this afternoon (8/28/2013) this issue of the missing chapter content is-it is hoped!-now sorted. The final chapter of GTST will appear here in a few days. Drop me a note (PM) if it makes more sense now (or not!) or should anyone spot a further continuity problem or any other sort of flub. Thank you for your patience.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N My computer keeps playing silly buggers with me; my third try at uploading this chapter!

They tell me I am special, these monsters, these _human_ monsters: so much worse than those born monstrous like the creature in the shadows—he wasn't given a choice about being born what he is —or at least I presume so— but these _human_ fiends are supposed to have been created in the likeness of the God of Love and _look_ at how they _choose_ to behave! I suppose I need to specify then, now I know the other sort of monster also exists.

So. I am 'special' they've decided, I will be given the mark of a noble beast, they say, whatever that means, preparatory to being given to Him. Once again, lucky me.

So, it is over for me. I suppose I should have made some sort of agreement with that thing in the shadows when I had the chance. Not as though I was cultivating a saintly soul anyhow. But now I'm being given to him for free so I no longer have anything to bargain with.

Several of these fat greasy bastards have had their way with me on and over the edge of this damned table. When they first lay me on it (face first, as I tried not to think of my face going where that demon's filthy arse had been!) I could still feel the heat in the stone from where that creature of Hell had been lounging on it before they all burst in, dragged me out and stripped me bare again. First real heat I've enjoyed since they threw me into this place—and provided by no kindly human either.

It's cold now, though, cold and hard... as I, too, soon hope to be.

Not nearly soon enough though. Already it's too slow for me.

It must be that there simply _is_ no God, no _real _gods at all. There _can't_ be. We all of us children in our turn have screamed ourselves hoarse for our God, for angels, the virgin, the Son, the saints, Celtic gods, our _mummies_, even heathen gods from far away in the case of one otherwise quiet little dark boy whom I'm certain was crying to _his_ gods to save him—Shiva, I heard him cry, and also _Kali_— before they took him and broke him. Literally broke him in two. The sight itself was a sin. I still see it when I fall asleep.

No God of love could possibly exist and look unmoved on such scenes, such slaughter of innocents.

Why is there a _devil _here, but no proper _god_ here willing to save, willing to answer me?

I seem to be fading. I know one of them is messing with a fire they've built in a corner, poking at it, putting several pokers into the coals...no idea why they would do that. Papa said not to, as it will ruin the temper of the hardened metal. But then nothing they do here makes any sense at all so why start now?

They say some one of us is an offering to some spirit or demon, but then _they_ all take him, not the devil. They say we are perfect, but then they break us and tear us apart. They praise our innocence and beauty, then take pleasure in take that beauty and ruining it, taking that innocence and defiling it.

None of it makes any sense at all. And now even the devil has given up and turned his back on me.

No...n..._no!_

They are not pokers they are branding irons—BRANDI— NOOOOOOAAAAURGH!

.

.

.

They have burnt me, _branded_ me.

.

...'mark of a noble beast', they said. _They_ are the beasts. I really hope...

I hope hell at least is real, even if God and heaven are not.

I would like to send them there... let the demon and his brethren make playthings of them, just as they did me.

These and the monsters who burned my home and killed— killed both my

...even now I can't think about it, about _them._

Lost,

lost

They've taken it all from me.

That is how these animals should die. Not good, kind people like—

I can't look any more.

I can't

They have set a fire in my flesh and it won't stop _burning!_

Was that—

...tall and black, like a detached shadow, moving amongst their own numbers...can they _really_ not _see_ him? He walks amongst them and they do not—what

.

A knife—a knifeno noNo**NO**! Not—urk

no...

.

W-where are they, where did they ... where am I?

.

I am...floating, swimming in a sea of close, thick darkness. Is this—am I dead then?

.


	6. Chapter 6

A knife?

Ah well, it was inevitable I suppose.

*sigh*, _Such_ a fragile, delicate beauty...and even more beautiful painted red.

"Why did you have to wait so long, my little lordling? You could have commanded me and I would have cheerfully dispatched them _all _for you. Such a pity...and we could've made rich sport out of making them pay, you and I, finally expressing that deep-rooted, simmering fury of yours." I take his pretty little pointed chin into my fingers and make him look at me, toying with his full red lips. My thumb slips between them and almost instantly I am rampant...fucking fewmets, I simply cannot keep my hands off the boy...

Such stunning beauty and so sweetly fragrant a soul! I dip my face down to savour the scent of his mouth and the bouquet of his essence, borne upon his shallow breathing. Alas, he has mere minutes now. The flood of his heart's blood is slowing to a drip.

"Our chance for that chess game is rapidly fading away, hanging by a mere spider's thread, little one."

Look at those fragile legs. I doubt he could walk even part of an afternoon without collapsing. But how beauteous the curve from his dainty ankles to his fulsome calves. Ah! gods and demons, how I want my mouth upon them.

He cannot even speak now but can he glare! Cold, weak fingers clutch my wrist as I pet his hot little cheek, alabaster stained with a fevered flush on that plump, round-oh, how I should like to take a bite of those apples-he is all together delectable. What a feast is here squandered! I sigh, forcing myself to come to terms with the imminent loss of _so much potential_, look deep into those impossible blue eyes one last time, promising myself I will remember him, when in truth it is about as likely as a human remembering an outstanding breeze that kissed their face once on a hot day... nevertheless I try, and I prepare myself to make the best of this dreadful situation by devouring his soul as is.

Just look at those sky blue eyes... blue as the heaven I fell from.

On the physical plane, other hands, hot, sweaty, covetous hands are clutching at me from all around now. I can no longer be bothered hiding from them. They are not nearly important enough. But they see me and take me for the demon they worship and they come, fawning, begging, pleading for power, moaning for money, demanding fame, beauty, for me to kill someone they haven't the stones to kill themselves—all the usual shallow, annoying blather...repulsive toadies. I enjoy treading on hands and kicking faces.

Some truly frantic harridan of their number has kicked, clawed and elbowed and ploughed her way past the men, between and over and through their legs, crawling on her hands and knees, refusing to be denied to come clutch and climb me like a pole and make me a delightfully filthy hands-on offer. She reaches round my hips, grabs my ass and puts her mouth to me with a lewd grin and rolling eyes, sure of her attractions and the efficacy of her direct methods.

Too bad she is so utterly, loathsomely corrupt already. Where is the fun in that, I ask you? I pull my knee up between her and my own body, plant my boot on her neck take great pleasure in shoving her off me, along with six more directly behind her. Oops, heel caught her in the throat and tore a bit...

O Well. No great loss there.

They are easy to ignore, _but this boy_, _this boy, now_...

Oh. I _want him_.

The knife is still planted squarely in his tiny heart. So squarely, I can see it visibly quiver with every contraction of that failing organ. No, I cannot do it. I cannot simply abandon him. I must try one last time. Surely _now _the hatred in his heart is finally ripe enough? If I latch on to the ceremonial knife I might be able to use it as a conduit to infuse him with some of my own strength. It should be enough, perhaps, for one last, quick conversation. In truth, he is so far gone I am able to move to the spiritual plane to speak with him, where we can have a little peace and privacy from phallus-mouthing harpies and their ilk.

Much better...here, where it is all spirit and nothing of frail bodies like his, here his eye is not dimmed, here he is still a fiery, vibrant thing full of all the raw strength his delicate flesh so oddly lacks. What a curious mix he is: so hot a flame in such a crumbling mortal vessel. I could do so _much_ with such a creature. What lovely sins we two could commit together, mmm, wrapped in one anothers' arms... or perhaps that is just the stiffness talking.

"So, my noble homunculus, have you thought of anything you would have of me? Anything you might care to do to this filthy pack of dogs who have beaten your body, branded your flesh and buggered you bloody? Now is the moment to speak, little one."

"Perhaps," he says. "But..."he stops to look about. "what is this place? And why are you holding onto the knife like that?"

"No time for sighteeing. We can speak of it later. Can you not feel you are on death's doorstep? You are only still on that doorstep because I am holding you there with my own power. I will not do so forever, so listen carefully: You could have this power to use for anything you liked. You could reyurn to the land of the living and have your vengeance on them all—I am more than capable of giving you that and more, but only if we contract together— but it is important that you understand, if you take my hand like this, the way to God's presence will be forever barred to you."

"Tch," he sneers, "There _is_ no Go—"

"No. You are mistaken in that. These eyes have seen the proof of it. I insist on this point because you _must_ clearly understand what it is you relinquish if you join hands with me."

"Well then He exists but does not care for me. And if not, why should I suffer and die just to go to be with one who doesn't care enough to save me from such pain and humiliation when I really needed Him? I am not leaving Him, He has already lost interest and left me."

I am not obligated to point out the errors in this reasoning or explain such complex reasons such as His own when it comes to saving humans (or not)—now is not the moment to begin teaching catechism or Theology, nor is it in my interest— so to this, I say nothing.

"Then you _do_ wish to form a contract with me?" I extend my hand—my left hand—to him. He clasps it without reservation and brings it to his breast drawing me closer. Back in the physical plane cries for someone to stop the boy treating with me ring out. There is at least one person paying attention and who understands the stakes and what this parley could lead to for them.

"Yes. I understand the price. All of it. Nothing would please me more."

"I too, little one, strange as that would seem."

"What next?"

"To seal the agreement, we mark our bodies with my sigil to signify our contract. It will appear on the back of my left hand, symbolizing the harnessing of my power to your will. The placement of yours is a matter of your own personal choice, but know the more prominently it is displayed, the more of my power will be at your command. You have but one soul, little one: I suggest you do not squander it."

"Nor will I. Place it wherever I will have more power than anyone else!"

"My my, so small, but already so very greedy!" Participating in the seven deadly sins already. This may well be a very short contract, I think. "Well then: I'll place it on this big blue eye of yours, so full of despair." It is, of course a demon's deepest instinct to mar beauty, to ruin and destroy. The beauty of his eyes drew me and so it pleases me to destroy that beauty even as I brand him as my possession.

The pain for us both is grotesque, the smell of flesh scorched in Hellfire envelops us for a moment, but it is no worse than anything else he's suffered. This suffering at least has some point to it however and that fact gives him the strength to take it fairly stoically. And how beautiful and brash it is, right there in his eye, bold as brass. I think I love him. Certainly I could gobble him _up_ in a heartbeat, I think to myself as the channel between us slowly yields to me and I close my eyes and concentrate on this new plane opening before me, a window into his inner life, so many bright new thoughts and ideas to defile, I'm dizzied with the orgasmic rush of it.

When the pain fades, I take his hand, draw him up to a sitting position and place one hand tight over the wound where they have plunged in the blade so that I may quickly heal him as I draw the grimoire free.

That accomplished, I bring him to his feet and the rabble fall back suddenly silent and fearing...heheh as well they should.

"Well now! And what a tiny little master you are, to be sure. What is your name, my little Lord?"

"Ciel. Ciel Phantomhive. And now my father is dead, I am the earl of Phantomhive."

_Ciel, eh? Ah, heaven indeed, what exquisite irony_. "Votre bel oeil bleu sera mon ciel, mon dieu, Ciel, mon paradis," I say, bowing deeply.

"Je ne suis pas ciel, Demon. Surtout pas le vôtre. Votre dieu, oui."

Heh, so quick he is, quick and arrogant I shall have to watch my step with this one.

"Now then, Little Master, shall we begin?"


End file.
